“Yuh him, Pa! Yuh him! Shum! Shum!”
“_Duhbaw!_” boomed Betsey, and Simon reeled from the recoil as the
load cut the top from a sapling down which the squirrel raced to the
ground and scampered off for a big pine not far away, rushing up the
trunk in long spirals. “Watch’um, Boyzie! Don’ tu’n yo’ yeye loose
off’um ’tell I git Betsey load’,” and Simon hurriedly rammed down his
charge with many furtive glances at the watching sentinel to see that
he didn’t “tu’n ’e yeye loose.” Extracting from a greasy rag a huge
copper cap of the grandfather’s hat pattern, he fitted the nipple and
cocked his musket, as strenuous an operation as pulling the trigger,
for at half-cock Betsey’s hammer leaned back like the head of a
strutting gobbler, while at the full, the cup yawned toward the heavens
like the crater of a miniature Mauna Loa. Circling the pine he tried
to locate the squirrel now lying flat in a crotch near the crown of
the long-leaf, his long tail hanging down while his body was securely
hidden. Boyzie pointed out the drooping tail. “Dey him, pa, dey him,
but ’e too fudduh. You cyan’ reach’um.”
“_Who?_ Dat squerril? _Watch’um!_” The piece was raised, two sinewy
fingers clutched the trigger with a jerk that would have disconcerted
any aim, and the hammer, describing a parabola, fell upon the cap
which exploded with a report like a parlor rifle, but Betsey’s muzzle
remained glum and silent.
“’S’mattuh, Betsey? You got ’ooman name en’ you ent got ’ooman mout’?
You cyan’ talk? De debble!” Another cap was fitted, another hopeful aim
taken and another futile “paow!” echoed among the pines. Simon, now
having only two caps left, accepted the suggestion that priming might
help. He also accepted the powder which he poured with a liberal hand
down the capacious nipple and rammed home with a lightwood splinter.
“Now watch’um come down.” Another careful sight at the tantalizing
tail up aloft, another “popped” cap with a little blue smoke from the
priming, and a sorely puzzled squirrel hunter.
“Witch mus’ be pit bad mout’ ’puntop Betsey. I ’spec’ ’e done cunjuh.”
“Pa, is you pit any powduh een dat gun?”
“Who? Me? Wuh gun? Betsey? C’ose I pit powduh een ’um.”
“Bettuh try’um,” said doubting youth, and he did. When the shot was
drawn and the screw of the long iron ramrod clicked against the breech
of the musket, old Okra’s face was a study. “Yaas, ef I did’n’ bin
haffuh watch Boyzie duh watch de squerril, I wouldn’t bin fuhgit fuh
load’um.” Consoling himself with this shifting of responsibility,
he loaded deliberately and fired, bringing down, with a lot of pine
needles, half the squirrel’s tail, which he stuck in the cord which
bound his old hat with the remark, “Well, ennyhow I git all wuh I shoot
at. _Ef man kin git all wuh ’e try fuh git, him oughtuh tengkful!_”
THE “CUNJUH” THAT CAME BACK
Lucy Jones, of Pon Pon, square and stout and widowed, had in her youth
been as frequently husbanded as the Wife of Bath. One by one, however,
through death, incompatibility of temperament, or indifference, she
had lost these affiliations, and now, a “settled woman,” Lucy lacked
the masterful ways and the loving club of a man about the house, for
it is axiomatic among the Gullah ladies of the Carolina coast that
love and physical chastisement are inseparable. “Ef man ent lick you,
’e yent lub you.” So, yearning for the touch of a vanished hoe handle
or axe helve, Lucy languished. There was no longer satisfaction in
“cawnhom’ny” or “tu’n flour.” There was no savor in “poke” greens or
lamb’s-quarter. Fat bacon, while greasing her mouth, no longer anointed
her soul. Her cabin was snug and comfortable, her bed was wide, and
covered with a patchwork quilt that would have made Joseph’s coat look
like a drab jacket of butternut jeans. This quilt, slowly fabricated
of all the bits of bright cloth--silk, cotton and wool--that she had
begged from “de buckruh” during a period of several years, she had
stitched together with painstaking fingers and exalted soul, absolutely
confident that with its completion would come a husband to share
its chromatic glories. “All de time uh binnuh mek dat quilt uh bin
agguhnize een me min’ duh study ’pun wuh kinduh husbun’ uh gwine git
w’en ’e done finish. Sometime’ uh t’ink uh gwine git uh nyung nigguh,
en’ den uh ’membuh suh dese’yuh nyung nigguh ent wut. Dem too lub fuh
t’row bone. En’ den, ’nodduh time uh study en’ uh t’ink uh’ll git uh
settle’ man, but uh know berry well uh haffuh git some kind’uh man
’cause uh lonesome tummuch, en’ uh keep on sew de quilt ’tell ’e done,
en’ uh pit’um on de bed, en’ dat night w’en uh gone’sleep onduhneet’ de
quilt, uh hab one dream, en’ one sperrit come to me een de dream en’
tell me suh me fuh marry Isaac Middletun.”
So the notion got into her head. Isaac was tall, as Lucy was short;
Isaac was thin, as Lucy was stout, and Isaac was wary, as Lucy was
predaceous. Himself an elderly widower, he was living alone when Lucy
delicately intimated to him her desire to change the Welsh name of
Jones for the aristocratic English patronymic of Middleton. Middleton,
acknowledging the compliment, politely declined the offer, preferring
to keep his lonely cabin to himself. “Uh tell’um wuh de sperrit say,”
she said, “en’ uh tell’um de sperrit say him fuh come fuh marry me dat
same night. Uh hab fait’ een de sperrit’ wu’d, en’ uh scour’ out de
house en’ uh mek de bed, en’ uh pit de tea by de fiah, en’ still yet
Middletun ent come. Uh nebbuh know shishuh eegnunt nigguh. W’en uh fin’
suh ’e yent come, uh gone deepo fuh fin’um, en’ uh tell’um ’gen wuh de
sperrit say. Uh tell’um ’bout de quilt en’ de tea en’ t’ing’, en’ uh
tell’um nemmine’ ’bout him house, cause myself hab house fuh alltwo uh
we fuh lib een, but Middletun ent haa’kee to wuh uh tell’um ’bout de
sperrit. ’E say suh de sperrit hab bidness fuh talk ’long nyung ’ooman
ef de sperrit fuh send wife fuh him. Uh tell’um uh nyung ’ooman cyan’
specify fuh wife fuh settle’ man lukkuh Middletun, ’cause dem lub fuh
dress tummuch, but seem lukkuh uh cyan’ git Middletun’ min’ straight.”
So she “took her foot in her hand” and went home, dejected but not
hopeless, for she determined to stick to the trail, as the hound to the
slot, until she ran the wily quarry to earth, to wit, cabin, for she
hankered after him with an intense hankering.
“Lucy Middletun,” “Mis’ Middletun,” how it filled the mouth and the
ear, and exalted the spirit with satisfaction! Ever since emancipation
the negroes have laid great store by their “titles,” prefaced by
“Mistuh” or “Mis’.” Very dear to their hearts was the evolution of
“Cuffee,” “Cudjo” and “Sancho” of slavery, into “Mistuh Scott,”
“Mistuh Hawlback” and “Mistuh Middletun,” of freedom, and, in the
twinkling of an eye, “Dinah” and “Bina” and “Bella,” the grubs, were
transformed into “Mis’ Wineglass,” “Mis’ Chizzum” and “Mis’ Manigo,”
the butterflies. So, as Lucy mused and spun the spider web of fancy in
which she hoped to entrap the wary and unappreciative Isaac, her mind
crossed the stormy seas of Endeavor, and, resting in the snug harbor of
Achievement, she thought of the deed as done, and imagined herself as
going to work on week days, to church on Sundays, and to class meetings
in the evenings, carrying, as appurtenant to her person, the longed-for
“title” of Isaac, and as she thought upon the occasions when on public
road or by-path she should “pass the time of day” in the ceremonial
salutations so dear to her kind, she was filled to the jowls with
ecstasy and her eardrums vibrated with the melody of “Middleton.”
“Mawnin’, Mis’ Jones, how you do, ma’am?”
“Mawnin’, Mis’ Wineglass, uh tengk Gawd fuh life, but you know uh yent
name Mis’ Jones now. Me duh Mis’ Middletun.”
“Dat so? I nebbuh yeddy ’bout Bredduh Jones dead.”
“No, ma’am, ’e yent dead, ma’am, but him hab anodduh lady, en’ me hab
Isaac Middletun. You know dat same Mistuh Middletun lib close Adam’ Run
deepo? Well, she duh my juntlemun now, en’ me duh Mis’ Middletun.”
“Yaas, ma’am, well, mawnin’, ma’am,” and so on.
And always as Lucy sat in the sunshine before the cabin door and smoked
her short clay pipe, or in the loneliness of night lay pondering and
ponderable under the quilt that looked like a county map of Texas,
constantly she projected thought waves towards Adams Run station,
near which abode the recalcitrant Middleton. Along this main-traveled
roadway of the Atlantic Coast Line, many trains passed by day and
by night. The shrill shriek of the local freight, as it took the
siding at the distant station, reminded her that Middleton’s ears
were filled with the same sound. The hoarse warning of the Florida
Limited at the curve, as it rushed southward filled with Northern
tourists, who,--viewing from observation cars the fruit-laden thickets
of gallberry bushes covering the damp, flat pinelands--marveled at
the prodigality of the Southern climate that ripened huckleberries in
midwinter, every whistle that blew along the busy line reminded Lucy
of the railroad, and the railroad reminded her of the station, and
the station reminded her of Middleton. Theoretically, a member of the
gentler sex has only to wish herself upon a man and the man is as good
as wived, and the dogma that “a woman has only to make up her mind to
marry a man and she gets him,” is probably as old as the Creation,
for Adam, like the gentleman he was, accepted philosophically and
uncomplainingly--even gallantly--the spouse which kind Heaven had
wished upon him. But much thought had brought Lucy to the conclusion
that in her chase of a husband she was after all a dachshund, while the
elusive Middleton was a fox. His defenses having proved impenetrable by
direct attack, she had tried sapping and mining without success, even
the “sperrit” bomb projected Middletonwards had fizzled at the fuse,
and her cabin and its encircling yard and garden were still, alas! “no
man’s land!”
In her desperation Lucy decided to conjure! Like old Lorenzo in “La
Mascotte,” she believed in “signs, omens, dreams, predictions,” and
also in the potency of the dried frog, the blacksnake skin and the
kerosene-soaked red flannel rag, as charms to pull a bashful wooer up
to the scratch, to put a “spell,” resulting in sickness or death, upon
an enemy, or for any other purpose suggested by the mind of the one
preparing the charm, for, a sort of aftermath of voodooism, “cunjuhs”
are still believed in by many of these superstitious people.
Lucy bethought her of old Simon, not an authenticated witch-doctor,
for he demanded no fixed fees, but a wily old sinner, a sort of
amateur in black magic, who gave advice free of charge, although his
services were always rewarded with gifts of eggs, or sweet potatoes,
or clean rice. As snake skins and dried frogs were component parts of
almost all old Simon’s “charms,” the boys of the community frequently
brought him those they killed or found dead by the roadside. These,
at his convenience, old Simon skinned and salted, or rubbed with
ashes and smoked and dried and put away, for use when occasion should
require. The low-country negroes seldom pass a dead frog lying on its
back, believing that if so exposed for any length of time, rain will
inevitably follow, and those so found, if not turned over to prevent
the floods from Heaven, were taken to old Simon and added to his store.
So in the dusk of the early night and the dark of the moon, for Lucy
did not wish the black sisterhood to know her business, she locked her
cabin door, put a shawl over her head and slipped away to Simon.
The weather was cold and Simon’s door was shut. She rapped faintly and
furtively, and a fierce bark challenged from within. Simon hobbled to
the door and opened it, a black cur growling at his knee. Kicking the
dog away, he bade Lucy enter.
“Come een, sistuh, how you do?”
“Tengk Gawd fuh life, Unk’ Simun. Uh come yuh fuh ax you fuh gimme uh
cunjuh fuh t’row uh spell ’puntop Isaac Middletun wuh lib Adam’ Run
deepo, fuh mek’um haa’kee to de sperrit’ wu’d, wuh tell’um fuh hab me
fuh wife, ’cause uh done tell’um _two time_ wuh de sperrit hab fuh say,
but him ent study ’bout no sperrit, en’ ’e suck ’e teet’ at me, en’
him say suh him fuh marry nyung ’ooman ’cause him ent hab no appetite
fuh marry settle’ ’ooman, en’ uh done tell’um suh nyung ’ooman cyan’
specify fuh settle’ man, but Middletun dat eegnunt en’ haa’d-head’, uh
cyan’ git’um fuh do nutt’n’, en’ please suh fuh mek one hebby cunjuh,
’cause Middletun stubbunt sukkuh oxin en’ mule alltwo, en’ w’en you
gimme de cunjuh, tell me wuh fuh do ’long’um en’ weh uh mus’ pit’um fuh
t’row de spell ’puntop’uh Middletun, en’ uh fetch t’ree aig’ en’ some
yalluh yam tettuh fuh you fuh eat.” And she took these gifts out of her
apron and presented them to the weaver of spells.
Simon was a man of few words. Going to an old cupboard where he kept
his store of raw materials, he fumbled about and at last drew forth the
dried skin of a “copper-belly” moccasin, about three feet long. This
he wound about a smoke-dried toad, to which had been added two rusty
horseshoe nails. Around them all a dirty strip of red flannel, well
soaked in kerosene, was tied, and the charm was ready. Wrapping it in a
piece of brown paper he gave it to Lucy who, tremulous with happiness
and excitement, tied it in a corner of her apron.
“Daughtuh, you f’aid fuh walk duh paat’ duh middlenight?”
“No, suh, uh yent ’f’aid fuh go Middletun’ house.”
“Berry well den, you fuh go Middletun’ house middlenight tenight. You
fuh tek dis cunjuh en’ pit’um ’puntop de do’step to Middletun’ house,
en’ you fuh walk easy so him ent fuh yeddy you. Onduhstan’?”
“Yaas, suh, tengk Gawd.” And she hurried homeward.
For awhile she dozed before her fire, and then, an hour before
midnight, with that uncanny instinct which guides those who live close
to nature, she roused herself, and with her precious charm, set out
hot-foot for the station. As she hurried through the dark a raccoon
padded noiselessly across the path. Farther on, a grey fox trotted
fearlessly in front of her for a few yards then sprang into the bushes
and disappeared. The terrifying shriek and wild laugh of a barred owl
just overhead, as she passed along a dark aisle in the forest, made
her heart stand still for an instant, but the thought of Middleton
warmed its cockles again and she kept on her way. At last she reached
Middleton’s cabin and, thanking her stars that he kept no dog, she
cautiously lifted the latch of his yard gate and tiptoed up to the
steps where, with a silent prayer for success, she deposited the
precious “cunjuh” and quietly slipped away.
Just at the end of the “dog watch” of the mariners, just before the
“day clean” of the negroes--the hour known to all night workers, when,
with the imminence of the dawn, somewhat of the weight of the world
seems lifted from their shoulders--Middleton rose from his cornshuck
couch and opening his cabin door looked forth, as is the custom of the
early-rising negroes, to scan the sky and appraise the promise of the
coming day. A gibbous moon of dusky gold, new-risen, hung low in the
East. Diana had been banting for ten days and altho’ her waist was
waning, she yet shed sufficient light to open the eyes and engage the
throats of all the roosters round about, and from the yards of lonely
woodland cabin, and plantation quarters, their voices, shrill and
clear, deep and raucous, came to Middleton’s ears as they saluted the
fools’ gold of the moonlight in the belief that they were heralding the
dawn.
“Fowl’ mus’ be t’ink day’ clean,” commented Middleton, and as he opened
the door wider to get a better outlook, his bare toe came into contact
with the gelid snakeskin and he sprang back in fear. Striking a match,
he lit a lightwood splinter and discovered the “cunjuh” mysteriously
placed at his very threshold. He scratched his puzzled head. “Eh, eh!
wuh dis t’ing? Me nebbuh do nutt’n’ to nobody. Uh wonduh who duh try
fuh t’row spell ’puntop me! Tengk Gawd, uh nebbuh ’tep obuhr’um,”
secure in the belief that as he had not stepped over it, no harm could
come to him. So, picking it up fearlessly, he put it away in a chink
in the clay chimney until he should find use for the dread instrument
which Providence had placed in his hands. All day he pondered, for,
having no enemies, there was none to whom he wished harm. At last, as
evening fell, dark thoughts came with the dusk, and a sinister purpose
slid into his soul, which he lost no time in putting into execution.
Venus was the evening star but she told him nothing, for there was
no love in his heart and his mind held only the definite purpose
to rid himself once and for all of the vexing importunities of the
husband-hunter.
“Uh gwine tek dis t’ing to da’ ’ooman’ house en’ t’row one spell
’puntop’um fuh mek’um pit ’e min’ ’puntop some dem todduh man en’
lemme ’lone,” and walking briskly to Lucy’s house, where she slept
unsuspiciously beneath the unalluring quilt, he carefully placed the
charm in the middle of the top step and went his ways under the starlit
heavens.
THE RACCOON HUNTER
All through the autumn, when golden-rod and sumac flaunted the colors
of Spain from every neglected fence corner, and the ripening sun
burned from the blue through the haze that hung over the earth, when
the crows, uttering their care-free harvest note, flew over the tawny
fields of corn, and negroes with nimble fingers pulled the reluctant
locks from the half-opened Sea Island cotton bolls, when squirrels
chattered and barked contentedly among the hickories as they commenced
to gather their winter’s store, and wild pigs nosed about for acorns
among the rustling leaves in the oak groves--all through these
September and October days, the boy had pestered old Abram, the most
successful ’coon hunter on Pon Pon, to organize a torchlight hunt and
take him along. Abram White, or “’Bram,” as he was commonly called, was
a slow-talking, slow-thinking, slow-moving old darkey; so deliberate
that the mental effort involved in answering the simplest question
would furrow his brow like an old-fashioned washboard. He had been
allowed to clear up a piece of rich land on Cotton Hill, far removed
from the “quarters” of the other negroes, and this field he held
rent-free in return for the labor of bringing it under cultivation. The
task occupied old ’Bram for several years. First building a substantial
cabin for his smart wife, Delia, he proceeded to “ring” the forest
trees and, leaving them to die, slowly grubbed up the smaller trees
and undergrowth, planting in the little cleared plots patches of
corn, peas and sweet potatoes, increasing his field bit by bit each
year. He was employed regularly as night watchman for the plantation
and, armed with his long “muskick”--a condemned army weapon--walked
his beat about barn and stables from dark till dawn, returning from
each round to drowse near the big fire which he invariably made in an
open spot, summer as well as winter, for the coast negroes are true
fire-worshipers and their love for the flames that leap and the embers
that glow is as great as their skill in fire-making. Abram owned the
best ’coon dog in the community, a black mongrel of medium size with a
blaze in the face and a white ring around his neck. Devoted as he was
to Delia, Abram’s love for “Ring” was almost as great, and his pride in
the dog’s accomplishments and reliability was infinite. The abandoned
rice field now overgrown, near old Abram’s new-ground, was full of
raccoons and ’possums and the old hunter often got permission to put on
a substitute watchman for part of the night, while he foraged the woods
with almost invariable success, and all through the winter the jambs
of his wide-throated clay chimney were hung with the smoked flesh of
his spoils, while their pelts--ring-tailed and rat-tailed--adorned the
outer walls of his log cabin.
The veteran ’coon dog will rarely follow any other animal than
raccoon or ’possum--the lawful prey of his negro master--ignoring the
frequently crossed trails of deer or fox. Puppies and undisciplined
dogs often break away and run rabbits, of course, but they are always
caught and thrashed and the occasional lapse is held derogatory to
the dog’s master. Both objects of the chase are nocturnal feeders,
sleeping most of the day in hollow trees or logs. Sometimes the hollow
is high up in the fork of some forest giant, completely hidden by the
lianas that run from the ground to the topmost branches. A dog will
occasionally bark at a tree whence the ’coon has descended, or one from
which the quarry has crossed on a limb or vine to another tree, and
whenever the hunter finds that his dog has “treed” at a vacant tree,
the poor animal is held to have “lied” and is given a severe whipping,
so seasoned dogs make few mistakes and old Abram’s Ring was always true.
At last, as October drew to a close and the first white frost nipped
the potato vines, the boy’s importunities bore fruit in a promise from
Abram to take him on the first clear night in the dark of the moon, the
condition being that the boy should furnish travel rations. The night
appointed proved fine and frosty, with a sharp tang in the air, and an
hour or two after dark the hunt assembled. Besides his single-barreled
muzzle-loader, the boy “packed” a knapsack filled with smoked herrings
and hardtack from the plantation commissary. Abram had his musket, and
Tom Ford and Joe Smashum, two young negroes, their axes. All three
carried bundles of “fat” lightwood for torches strapped to their backs.
Sike, a half-grown black boy, carried himself. All the negroes were
bare-footed, the horny soles of their feet having become so toughened
as to make them indifferent to briars and snags. Ring wagged his tail
expectantly and, like his master, looked contemptuously upon the two
young curs that followed Joe.
And now they started single file, the boy in front, then old ’Bram, the
torch-bearers last, throwing a flood of light ahead of them, the dogs
at heel close to their respective masters. So, down the broad avenue
of live-oaks, the great trees heavily bearded with the gray Spanish
moss, assuming fantastic shapes in the flare of the torches, on across
the old King’s Highway, past the Big Spring and over a low causeway
that spanned an old rice field. Here the party hesitated between two
“drives” that seemed equally promising, one to the right across the
“half moon” dam to a thickly wooded island in the big savanna, the
other with a slant to the left through a grove of big beeches toward
the “Blue House” back water. While old Abram scratched his head for
a decision which “the stubborn glebe” was slow to yield, Ring, who
had been nosing about, dashed suddenly among the undergrowth of
saw-palmettoes that covered the ground under the beeches and, giving
tongue on a hot trail, ended his master’s cogitations. The other dogs
followed the veteran in full cry, and in a few minutes Ring’s slow and
measured barking apprised his master that he had “treed.” The negroes
shouted encouragingly, “_speak, Ring!_” “_Speak to’um, boy!_” as the
party pushed through the thicket and found Ring sitting before a
loblolly pine, one of a group of three which grew close together with
their upper limbs almost touching.